Time to Dance
by FloraIrmaTylee
Summary: He's a weapons tycoon. She's a world famous model. There's a problem, though- he's a murderer and she's caught in the crossfire. "Well, she's not bleeding on the ballroom floor just for the attention," Pitch drawled. (Pitch/Elsa)


**I've been listening to a lot of Panic! At the Disco, and this song that've based this one-shot on is my inspiration- okay so like "Time to Dance" by _Panic! At the Disco_ is glorious and music inspires me to write so why not? The only problem is that when I write, things usually don't make that much sense- plus, I feel the ending to this could've worked out better. This is so random but yeesh I think I'm falling in love with Pitch and Elsa and I need some fanfics of them so someone give recommendations of good Frigid Darkness fanfictions? **

* * *

The camera flashed, fluorescent lights causing Elsa to go dizzy with dancing spots of white in her vision, hand uncertainly slipping from its position on her waist.

"Smile, beautiful, it's going in the papers!" the gleeful photographer clicked away with his expensive-looking camera, each burst of light causing Elsa to clench her teeth and fake her smile.

The papers, indeed. She could think of something else she'd rather do with that camera and it had nothing to with posing for it.

"Gorgeous!" the photographer declared. "This is _screaming_ photo op! Stunning, Ms. Arendelle!"

"Thank you," Elsa bit out stiffly, sure her back did not look relaxed as she straightened from her pose.

"It's not everyday the world famous supermodel is here at the legendary Masked Ball!" the man chattered on, grin wide on his bearded face. "It's truly an honor."

"Yes, well, the point of a _masked_ ball is to be masked," Elsa said pointedly. "If you'll excuse me."

"Of course, of course!"

She slipped away from the grand entrance, where elegantly dressed people moved to be accepted into the pearly marble doors of the Westerguard mansion.

Each step left the music and loud talking to fade, until Elsa found herself next to the royal grounds, hidden in perfectly clipped and arranged green shrubs.

Carefully, she breathed in and out. There. Anxiety be damned, she had to attend this ball. Even if she hated social events, she was, as the photographer pointed out, an important celebrity.

Her agent has made it quite clear that Elsa was to arrive at the ball and charm Hans Westerguard into becoming her companion on the next cover of the nation's most read magazine.

Something Elsa was very uncomfortable with.

Her personal dresser had chosen a beautiful dress for Elsa to wear: a shimmering off the shoulder gown with bejeweled, see-through sleeves, a lighter blue than the slightly darker color that made up the sweetheart neckline and full skirt. Her mask was the same shade as her skirt, white lace adorning the edges, to match her hair, platinum and fair, pulled back into a chignon with silver clips. She pulled the mask on over her hairdo, careful not to squash the fluffy white plumes that adorned the sides.

She was ready to waltz in this time, as her personal dresser had referred to her as, "the belle of the ball".

So she did. Cool gaze, giving the attendant on duty her name with confidence, tossing her shoulders back and stepping onto the shiny tile floor with composed steps of the white heels that strapped around her ankles that, in the words of her stylist, were sexy and to die for.

There she was, in a sea of people laughing and dancing, rigid and unmoving.

_Breathe. Just breathe. _

She walked over to the first mostly deserted table she saw and took a seat in the plushy white chair, admiring the scenery. Hans certainly went all out that year.

Lights twinkled from the celling in shades of the rainbow, ice statues of masked figures lined the floor, waiters carried trays of delicacies she knew cost a fortune.

Impressive, she had to admit.

Elsa made her way to serve herself a plate of food, promising that she'd find Hans immediately after with her business proposal, but her insistent thoughts weakened at the banquet spread.

She piled buttered lobster, garlic bread, and steamed vegetables that wafted mouth-watering smells before she was at the salad bar, equipped with toppings aplenty, and all thoughts of Hans were instantly gone.

Everything was delicious. In fact, it almost made the ball worth it. And that was a laugh, that the only reason she justified coming to the ball was because of food, but in fact, the ball was rather dull. It was extravagant and fancy but it was exactly like every snooze fest of a gala she'd ever attended.

Nothing would happen. She'd avoid the dance floor, try and identify one of the many masked men as Hans, and that would be the end of the night.

Nothing else.

That is, until the man came up to her.

She didn't recognize him. He was tall, taller than her, with black hair slicked back with enough product to make any woman retch. The black tuxedo he wore looked costly, tailored perfectly and clung to the man's body in a way that was attractively alluring. The black leather mask that covered the man's upper face did little to hide the smoldering golden eyes that stood out among the man's unhealthy looking complexion, and they instantly drew her in.

Elsa paused, the flute of champagne she held halting, the bubbly liquid never making it past the dark red of her lipstick because the man extended a hand. Her blue eyes flickered to it briefly, then back up to the man, obvious surprise written all over her face.

"Would you do me the honor, miss?" the man's voice was seductive, low, lips pulled back into a smirk that showed an array of sharper-than-normal teeth.

"I-" Elsa told herself that dancing at balls like these were never part of the plan of the night. "I'm sorry, no. I don't dance."

"Oh, on the contrary," the man refused the way she drew her hands back and he pulled her upright by the wrist, lips moving to her ear. "Miss Arendelle." His breath tickled her ear, and she shivered by the way the warm moistness touched her.

"How do you-"

"It's not hard to notice you in a crowd, Elsa," he said calmly, one hand snaking around her waist and the other lifting her chin to meet his gaze.

"I don't know who you are," she blurted, and rational thoughts be damned, he was smirking and looking ridiculously arousing at the same time and someone can't expect to retort with a witty comeback when the person in question is a tall, distracting, inviting man.

"Come, Ms. Arendelle," he ignored her reluctance, his knuckles softly grazing down her cheek as Elsa's breath caught in her throat. "Time to dance."

The quarter playing in the far corner of the room strike up a waltz, violins and trumpets playing in perfect harmony. His right hand rested on Elsa's waist, firm but not heavy, the left hand right between her shoulder blades, bringing her close.

Elsa let her hands go around his neck, but it was an unnatural feeling, his intense gaze making the anxiety return and fester in her chest until she felt like she couldn't breathe. Under his wandering eyes, she felt like a bug under a microscope, trapped and at his will.

His feet moved first, and she stepped along with him, his moves even and smooth, careful and precise, never sloppy and never amateurish.

It only added to Elsa's disdain; this stranger was perfectly- well, perfect- and it made her uneasy. His hands kept her in place, his eyes made her stay still. She swallowed hard, feet feeling heavy.

"You're worried, Elsa."

She looked up at him in surprise after he spoke, mouth opening to speak, but her overlapped her.

"Perhaps I ought to introduce myself. Pitch Black, CEO of Black Industries."

He lifted one of her hands from where it laid on his shoulder and pressed it to his mouth, lips puckering. Elsa drew her hand back immediately, face flaming under her mask, the feel of his kiss lingering.

She knew where he was from now.

"The- weapons specialist," she choked out instead, hoping that she didn't sound unnerved.

He arched a perfect black eyebrow. "Yes."

"I didn't assume to ever find you in a place like this," Elsa kept talking, looking down at her feet. "From the rumors I'd heard, you hate Hans Westerguard with a passion." The pale skin peeking out from under her intricate mask flushed pink at the thought of integrating herself into other people's lives. "N-not that I-"

"It's perfectly alright, Elsa, in fact, you're right," Pitch wasn't fazed. "He's a bastard. I don't like him at all; I avoid this ball though he invites me every year. I understand he only wants to invest in my company, which I have no intention of ever allowing."

"Why come now?" Elsa was curious at the point, glancing up to meet Pitch's eyes.

"To give him what he wants," Pitch said, his gaze turning predatory and hard, his fingers suddenly digging into Elsa's side to hurt just a tad. Elsa's mouth set into a hard line at his actions.

"Please, unhand me," Elsa released the intimate position she held him in, but he made no move to correct his own.

"No, you're perfect for this part, love, it'd be a shame for you to miss out."

He spun her then, amber eyes boring into her blue ones, in a whirlwind of skirts and dipped her effortlessly, her back arching and her scalp almost touching the floor, rendering her dizzy, eyelids closing in terror.

He pulled her up to her feet, lips level with her ear, and when he spoke, his voice was harsh and cold.

"Have some composure, darling, where is your posture?"

Elsa's eyes shot open and she shoved him away as hard as she could, which wasn't as far as she'd hoped, but his strong hands gripped her wrists painfully.

"You're nothing but a pawn to me," Pitch growled in a whisper, snarling, eyes narrowing. "Westerguard will take a bullet for you, I'm sure."

"Don't touch me!" Elsa struggled to get her hands free, feeling panic bubbling up, her hair threatening to slide from her updo and fall over her bare shoulders.

He spoke quietly so only she heard his words, but they were loud enough in her ears.

"You're going to pretend to be a damsel in distress. You're going to lay in the middle of the ballroom floor, where you assume I'll shoot you. Then, you let Hans take the bullet for you."

Elsa was quick to back away. "No," she said, but it was barely intelligible. "No, you're a lunatic. This isn't real, this is-"

_There was not a man trying to get her involved in a murder plot. _

_In the middle of a ball. _

"You're not dreaming, love, but here's what's reality tastes like," Pitch leaned closer to her until his lips were inches from her, his minty breath ghosting over her mouth. "You refuse, I'll shoot you with Westerguard."

"Do it," Elsa snapped before she could stop herself, though her heartbeat felt like it was pounding in her ears. "Kill me. I won't let you kill Hans."

"So it's like that, is it, dear?" Pitch slowly stepped away from her, eyes flickering upward to the ceiling. Elsa followed his path of vision to a crystal chandelier hanging above their heads, right in the center of the ballroom where they stood. "Make no mistake, I will kill him. But you will help me."

Elsa idly wondered why he looked at the chandelier, assuming he'd pull some trick like shooting it down, and she stepped away slowly.

His hand retreated into his pocket, and that's when she caught sight of the gun.

It was a foolish move, really. But it was worth a shot.

She pounced for it, instinct of survival kicking in, hands moving to hit him where it hurt and would ache for days, leg idly landing in the direction of his shin.

She never got the gun. No, he fired it.

Once. Twice.

It was like time slowed.

All she heard were explosions, loud, blinding flashes, and then pain. She wobbled in steps, crumbling to the floor like a folding house of cards, hands reaching for her sides and coming back red.

Blood ruined her designer gown and it was then that everyone took notice.

Gasps, glass breaking, and then stunned silence, save for some screams and mad scrambling to get the hell out of there ensued. At every entrance, man clad in black, wearing downplayed versions of Pitch's mask, blocked every escape route. The people were trapped.

And Elsa was dying.

"Well, she's not bleeding on the ballroom floor just for the attention," Pitch drawled. His leather dress shoes came to an abrupt stop before Elsa's quivering body, his high-priced footwear never soiled by the red liquid that trickled on the white floor, a thin river of blood spreading from a steady growing puddle around the young woman.

Somewhere in the gathered crowd, an older woman's shrill scream was heard. Elsa struggled to stand, and she could see where Pitch's gun laid, on the floor, carelessly dropped by his hand once he'd succeeded in getting the floor to himself.

Reluctantly, she inched for it though it taxed every bit of her strength to do so.

"I wait for Hans Westerguard to show his face," Pitch said calmly, stalking in front of the masses with a measured smile, hands behind his back. "If he'll accept to die for this young woman, she might live."

Instantly, hushed whispers ran among the people. They were scared, frightened, and Pitch basked in their fear.

Elsa's hands finally got the gun. She crawled to her hands and knees.

And then she knocked Pitch Black onto his bottom with a swing of her leg.

Everything was a mess of limbs and haphazard hits. Elsa knew at some point that her fist connected with Pitch's face and that he yanked her hair so hard that pain shot up her skull, her mask slipping off.

Exposed as Elsa Arendelle, she shakily stood up as straight as she could, fresh pain shooting up her side. Pitch scrambled up from where he fell, fury etched into his features, but then he got a good look at who it was that was before him.

Elsa pointed the gun at Pitch, eyes and hands trembling.

Pitch chuckled darkly, thumb moving to wipe blood off his bottom lip. "Go ahead."

She'd never tried to shoot a gun before. It was confusing. Her eyes flickered to the barrel, to the trigger, and to the handle hesitantly. Like she'd gathered from few action movies, she pressed the trigger, screwing her eyes shut, but no loud bang came.

"You're pulling the trigger all wrong," Pitch's smile was gloating and patronizing when her eyelids cracked open.

"Leave her alone, Pitch."

The voice came out of the crowd, Hans Westerguard pushing through the people, white suit with a matching gold-and-white trimmmed mask making him noticeable, though alarmed gulps followed him.

"Westerguard," Pitch turned away from Elsa, smirking. "How I've waited for this moment."

"I've already called the police," Hans continued, gloved hands holding out in a sign of warning. "Now get away from Elsa."

Elsa still held the gun, but was frozen in place, watching as Hans and Pitch faced off.

"If that's so, Westerguard, then there's really no reason for me to stay," Pitch said simply, and his hands retreated into his trouser pockets.

Elsa haltingly lowered the gun, tremulous hands giving away the fact that she was frightened.

There was still one thing that irked her, though- the way Pitch's fingers turned in his pockets.

In his palm he held out a simple round-ish object, but Elsa really didn't know what it was. At the sight of it, Hans backed away, yelling.

"Grenade!"

Pitch tossed it up at the ceiling, and Elsa understood what his motives were, ducking with the various other people.

The chandelier shattered in shards of crystal and glass, the clear pieces hitting the floor hard and cutting into bare skin. Everywhere else, at every exit, Pitch's henchmen dropped similar weapons, that instead of exploding, gave off clear white smoke and made everything hard to see.

Elsa coughed, sitting up from where she'd fallen on the floor, but her vision was hazy and unfocused from all the swirling debris and her ears were ringing with loud screams of other partygoers.

All she knew was that it hurt, more than it should, and silent tears dripped off her face.

She'd been shot.

She was allowed to cry at the fanciest party of the year.

Tears dropped into the blood at her feet and that's when Pitch came out of the shadows.

His hands gripped her chin reminiscent to earlier, though it was more gentle, and amber eyes surveyed blue.

He kissed her, desperately but mercilessly.

It started slow enough with pure touching of lips, but escalated to the point where he swiped access to her mouth with his tongue savagely, nipping at her lower lip and sucking, and goodness, it had been a while since Elsa had been kissed and she kissed him back.

Then he left, Elsa gasping for breath with a fixated gaze on his lips, as he disappeared with a smirk.

Into the shadows where he'd came from.


End file.
